


with their legs tied up in knots

by wintertobios



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Fluff, Gay, HEED TAGS PLS, Hallucinations, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru Angst, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru Fluff, M/M, Mental Instability, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Happy, Not a fun story, Oikawa Tooru Needs a Hug, POV Oikawa Tooru, Poor Iwaizumi Hajime, Sad Oikawa Tooru, Self-Harm, at least in the beginning, cuz i dont like writing it lol, i luv them, if u want only fluff, iwaoi - Freeform, like seriously im sad, matsukawa and hanamaki r like there for 2 seconds, read at ur own risk, read just the first part, sorry for this, this is set in the 1960-70s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:41:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28825377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintertobios/pseuds/wintertobios
Summary: “Why bring this up now? Not exactly a stellar thing to say when we just fucked.”“Dunno. I wish we could run away.”“Stop wishing,” Iwaizumi grunts, “you’ll just get your hopes up.”“There are places in Europe that’ll want us,” Oikawa replies. Iwaizumi is silent as he mulls this over, the only rock able to withstand Oikawa’s rapid stream of thoughts.“Europe’s racist, though. You can’t exactly hide your ethnicity, dumbass.” His voice is raspy, and it’s not hard to guess why. The screams of Oikawa’s name just a few moments prior are still lingering in the dips and curves of the land, threatening to overflow and ricochet until the entire world is privy to hear.Oikawa just hums in agreement, not wanting to delve further in fear of ruining the peaceful atmosphere. Their bodies spill over the edges of the blanket, hands touching loosely like the edges of galaxies meeting, the initial shock wearing off until all is left is a flickering warmth. It festers, crackles, but never dies down.(or; oikawa and iwaizumi are lovestruck, and love always gets you killed)
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime & Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	with their legs tied up in knots

**Author's Note:**

> HEED THE TAGS AND READ AT UR OWN RISK

Iwaizumi, surprisingly, had been the first one to suggest the idea, stumbling over the words like they were barbed wires on the ground. They were eating lunch on Oikawa’s roof, both boys dangling their legs while chewing around mouthfuls of grilled cheese, the only things on their minds being each other. Oikawa had smiled in lieu of a response, the rare sort of smile that only comes out once in a blue moon, and that was that.

So now they’re running, evident through the pain in Oikawa’s knees as they thud across the field in dirt-crusted bare feet, and the sharp inhales by his side as Iwaizumi tries to satiate the burning in his lungs. It’s well past sunset—the sky a deep purple, the moon a calm presence in the sky, the familiar voices of the neighborhood children long gone. The world is just Oikawa and Iwaizumi and that, they believe, is perfect.

“We’re gonna get caught, y’know,” Iwaizumi pants, only mildly aware of Oikawa’s sweaty hand clutched around his as the latter leads him to fuck-knows-where, “I don’t wanna get sent to conversion therapy ‘cuz of your ass.”

Oikawa grins wryly, as if the thought of being gay and therefore illegal had never crossed his mind. “We won’t. Nobody comes out here.”

“Clearly,” Iwaizumi grumbles, tripping on the overgrown weeds and barely avoiding falling onto the ground. Oikawa looks back at him, sees the way that his normally spiky hair is drooping down, looks at the sweat dripping down his nape and the dirt on his legs, and he thinks to himself that he has never seen a prettier sight.

.

“We’re here!” Oikawa all but sings, throwing his arms up in what is supposed to be some grand gesture but only ends up looking kinda pathetic.

“You took me all the way out here for this...thing.”

“It’s a barn!”

“It’s falling apart, is it what is.”

Iwaizumi’s right, of course, like he is about most things. From the chipping paint to the chunks of wood missing from the walls, it looks like something out of a horror movie and not a place to, as Oikawa had so eloquently put it, have a wonderful time “inserting your dick in my ass.”

Oikawa pouts, and Iwaizumi pointedly turns away to avoid the oncoming puppy eyes. “I’m sure it’s better on the inside,” Oikawa grabs Iwaizumi’s hand and drags him to the entrance, “stop being such a baby about it.”

“ _I’m_ the baby here?” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but doesn’t complain further.

The barn is dusty, and Oikawa pulls his shirt over his nose to avoid hacking up his lungs like a dying cat, which is what Iwaizumi is currently doing. Their eyes take a while to adjust to the only light in the room—slivers of silvery-white moonlight that peek through the cracks on the walls and cause uneven shadows to dance across their skin.

It’s warm inside, which is to be expected with the heat of summer raging through their town like a particularly large tidal wave. But while that warmth is sweltering and bordering on unbearable, the barn is more akin to the old heater Oikawa keeps in his room during winter, the one that had burned Iwaizumi on more than one occasion and has three dents from when things had fallen on it. 

Iwaizumi glances down at the floor, all rough wood and sharp splinters and mold and overall, extremely gross. Looking over at Oikawa, he says, “How are we gonna do _anything_ here? I’m not gonna get splinters because you decided to fuck me in this century-old excuse of a barn.”

Oikawa winks, which usually means terrible things, and leads the shorter of the two over to the back, where there are rows upon rows of large woolen blankets that look like they haven’t been washed in years. “You can get an STD instead,” Oikawa laughs, a loud and unabashed sound that reminds Iwaizumi of homemade clay bowls and mediocre barbecues.

“I fucking hate you,” Iwaizumi responds, but moves to take a blanket anyway. 

“Love you too!” Oikawa blows a cheeky kiss and relishes in the way the tips of Iwaizumi’s ears turn an almost unnoticeable red. When he points out as much, Iwaizumi only flips his middle finger off in Oikawa’s face, to which the latter gets back at him by spitting at him like a petulant child. Iwaizumi wipes the salvia off his cheek, grimacing, before hurling a clump of dirt at Oikawa and then kicking him lightly in the shin.

When the blanket finally unfurls, they are met with hay sticking out of every hole in the wool and maybe a couple rat corpses. Probably rats, anyway—neither of them want to look closer to check. Iwaizumi peers up at Oikawa and says, “Your idea. You clean it.”

“What the fuck.”

“Do it or I’m leaving.”

Oikawa’s eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t _dare_.” 

Iwaizumi only stares back until the paler boy gives in and sighs.

.

“Stay _still_!” Oikawa protests, moving lithe fingers to unbutton Iwaizumi’s pants, or at least try to, because they’re both horny and therefore incredibly impatient.

“I can remove my own shit,” Iwaizumi snaps back. His skin is tanner than Oikawa’s, something that Oikawa is very much reminded of when Iwaizumi takes off his clothes and kneels down in front of the taller boy in all of his naked glory. “Well?”

Oikawa’s response comes in the form of half-lidded eyes, husky words, the nudge of his leg, and the rest is history.

The air is filled with the sweet scent of lust and longing, the quiet of the night disrupted by periodic moans that eventually fade into the summer breeze. Outside, the moon waits, unchanging. 

Iwaizumi’s hair is matted down with sweat and soot, and Oikawa’s purposely chaotic hairstyle becomes just plain chaotic, littered with knots and unraveled across the musty woolen mat. Iwaizumi’s breath fans across Oikawa’s collarbones, calloused fingers digging into milky white skin; Oikawa’s lips are flushed a pretty shade of pink, all swollen and glossy with saliva amongst other things. Together, their legs tangle up, sticky, hot, and just the slightest bit disgusting. 

“I love you,” Iwaizumi mumbles, his voice coming out breathy and exhausted against Oikawa’s chest. The words make their way into the crevices of Oikawa’s mind the same way rain trickles into small holes on the ground until it inevitably fills. 

“Love you too,” Oikawa responds, resting his chin on Iwaizumi’s head. He idly traces the pale stretch marks on Iwaizumi’s back, streaks of paint that claim the boy’s skin as their home. Oikawa stifles a laugh when Iwaizumi shudders at the touch.

“Shut up,” the older boy mutters, “your hands are cold.”

“Are you saying I’m not hot?”

“No,” a pause, “but you’re painfully unfunny.”

“You’re so mean,” Oikawa whines, dragging out the vowels annoyingly. “I can’t believe I just had sex with a dick like you.”

“You had sex with me _‘cuz_ of my dick,” Iwaizumi unhelpfully points out. Neither of them bother to deny the truth in that statement.

There’s a lull in conversation where the wind whispers in order to fill in the empty silence, weaving its way between stalks of dry grass and disrupting small piles of hay. Oikawa reaches down to gently comb through Iwaizumi’s hair, and offhandedly comments, “Did’ya hear what happened to Matsukawa?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t bother to look up. “Blew his brains out ‘cuz he was caught with Hanamaki, right?”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa slaps Iwaizumi’s head lightly. “You could stand to be a little less harsh about it.”

“Why bring this up now? Not exactly a stellar thing to say when we just fucked.” 

“Dunno. I wish we could run away.” 

“Stop wishing,” Iwaizumi grunts, “you’ll just get your hopes up.”

“There are places in Europe that’ll want us,” Oikawa replies. Iwaizumi is silent as he mulls this over, the only rock able to withstand Oikawa’s rapid stream of thoughts.

“Europe’s racist, though. You can’t exactly hide your ethnicity, dumbass.” His voice is raspy, and it’s not hard to guess why. The screams of Oikawa’s name just a few moments prior are still lingering in the dips and curves of the land, threatening to overflow and ricochet until the entire world is privy to hear. 

Oikawa just hums in agreement, not wanting to delve further in fear of ruining the peaceful atmosphere. Their bodies spill over the edges of the blanket, hands touching loosely like the edges of galaxies meeting, the initial shock wearing off until all is left is a flickering warmth. It festers, crackles, but never dies down.

It’s all perfect, until it isn’t. 

At first it starts with faint footsteps, so light and vague-sounding that Oikawa asks if Iwaizumi is kicking his feet. Iwaizumi says no, and Oikawa thinks nothing of it, pushing the thought to the back of his mind as he continues to drift into a light sleep, Iwaizumi pressed up against him, his soft huffs causing goosebumps to pop up on Oikawa’s skin. 

Then Iwaizumi wrinkles his nose, pushing Oikawa away in order to prop himself up. “It kinda smells like your old man’s nasty-ass beer.”

“I think you’re just imagining things.”

“I’m not delusional like you are—it literally smells like it. Don’t tell me your nose is failing you now, of all times.”

Oikawa cautiously sniffs, and his eyes widen imperceptibly as the telltale scent of cheap alcohol and cigarettes makes its way into the barn. “How did he find us?” He whispers, carelessly throwing on his clothes and then proceeding to try and move the both of them to the back of the barn as quietly as possible.

“Who the fuck knows?” Iwaizumi lowers his voice to match Oikawa’s, following the brunet and tiptoeing around dry leaves. His shirt is slightly askew, a couple of sticks and specks of dirt adorning the previous white garment. His shorts are on backwards. “The real question is what’s he gonna do to us?”

“My dad likes you,” Oikawa shuffles the other wool mats around in order to create space for the two of them to crouch down, “you’ll be fine.”

“Your dad doesn’t know that we’re gay,” Iwaizumi deadpans, “and you don’t know his stance on this shit.”

“We don’t even know if it’s my dad, though. That’s why we’re hiding in the first place.”

“My point still stands.”

Oikawa opens his mouth to respond, except there is a flash of light, an angered shout, a gunshot, and the only thing going through his fear-riddled mind is _run._

.

Consciousness comes slowly, like being dragged from the deepest point of the ocean all the way up to the surface, all other senses being drowned out in order to not overwhelm his brain. Oikawa blinks, long eyelashes lingering on his skin as he shifts around, observing the cuts on his feet and crusted blood on his cheek. When he roughly wipes it away, only unblemished skin remains.

All he hears is radio static, buzzing and incessant and licking the inner walls of his head with a tongue made out of needles and flames. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Oikawa presses the pads of his fingers on his face and forces himself to think—

_(He spots the barn in the distance and tugs on Iwaizumi’s hand just a little bit harder. “We’re almost there! See, I told you it wouldn’t be that far!”_

_Iwaizumi glances up and meets his gaze, dark brown eyes matching Oikawa’s own; a phantom limb reaches deep into the depths of Oikawa’s very being and draws out his soul, grasping him tightly and rendering him unable to look away. If Oikawa is a magnet, then Iwaizumi is metal, unwavering but still commanding Oikawa’s attention regardless.)_

—there is a boy, of course, but Oikawa cannot recall his name. There is no face, either, and try as he might he can only conjure up certain features, like slanted eyes and furrowed brows and slightly spiky hair. But while his memory may be lacking, his mind is sharp; he notices how tired his legs feel, how dirty the bottom of his feet are, and _oh_. “We were running,” he says out loud, wincing a little at how hoarse his voice sounds. 

Chasing after something, perhaps? Oikawa tugs at the collar of his shirt and plucks stalks of hay from out of his shorts—

_(“Take off your shorts, dumbass. I can see your fuckin’ boner from here.”_

_“Why’re you staring at my dick?” Oikawa teases, but yanks them off regardless, tossing them carelessly into a pile of stale straw._

_Iwaizumi doesn’t even bother to respond to Oikawa’s question, looking both fed up and fond at the same time. “You’re really gonna throw them there?” He asks instead. “There’s gonna be hay coming out of your ass when you put them on in the morning.”_

_“So crude, Iwa-chan!”_

_“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Iwaizumi grabs a fistful of Oikawa’s shirt and pulls him close, “now take off your top.”)_

—Oikawa’s face warms up, and he presses cold hands to his cheeks in an attempt to cool them down. Sex in what he assumes is a barn isn’t really what he would call the _best_ place to lose his virginity, but he supposes that it can’t be helped. Whirling his head around, his face falls as he realizes something.

There’s no barn. There’s no _anything,_ really, just miles and miles of grass that stretch on further than Oikawa could possibly imagine. In the distance, he watches the sun rise and bathe his skin in a dewy morning glow, rays trickling down the slopes of the land and highlighting each bump and curve like the world is a blank canvas just begging to be painted. 

Oikawa has always been told that he has a good imagination, but he never thought that it would betray him in such a way that carves out his heart and leaves a hollow wound that doesn’t bleed, but rots. The bridge between his dreams and reality has finally broken, bursting into tiny fragments that get lost among the expansion of the stars, until Oikawa is stuck staring up at them at night and watching as they mock his very existence. 

The timeline of last night, or perhaps two or three nights ago (it’s not like his fantasies ever follow a clock), is completely lost upon him, and Oikawa can only hold a couple shards of his hallucinations in his hand and stare at how the sharp edges cut into his skin.

So there is no boy, and there is no barn, and now he thinks that there can’t be any _Oikawa_ either—he is only as good as his imagination, after all. Judging by the way his brain threatens to spill out of his ears from the sheer pain reverberating in his skull, he muses that he probably hit his head at some point and shattered whatever illusion he had conjured up that night, causing both the barn and the boy to disappear. It’s not a pleasant thought, but at least he finally feels somewhat in control of himself by now.

A bitter smile makes his way up to Oikawa’s face. He wishes the boy were real, more than anything, because although Oikawa is nothing more than a conglomeration of foolish hopes and lost dreams, he thinks that the thought of having someone to love could’ve _maybe_ , just _maybe,_ made him into a real person again.

“I fucking loved you,” Oikawa’s voice cracks, punching the ground beneath him in hopes that it would cave in and drag him with it. “I fucking loved you, and you—you loved me back, didn’t you?”

_(“Say it!” Oikawa whines. “Or I’ll tell my mom that you secretly hated her tofu this entire time and then she’ll stop giving you it.”_

_“She’ll never believe you,” Iwaizumi chews through a mouthful of onigiri, a couple specks of rice still stuck on the corners of his mouth, “I’ve literally made it my whole personality trait, y’know, liking tofu.”_

_“You suck.”_

_“Shut up and eat.”_

_“I’m not eating until you say it,” Oikawa crosses his arms and sticks out his tongue in a perfect imitation of his nine-year-old nephew._

_Iwaizumi swallows the ball of rice and moves to take another. “You’re so fuckin’ petty. How do you even have friends?”_

_“My looks, duh. You wouldn’t understand,” Oikawa teases, and pauses at the look on Iwaizumi’s face before reaching forward and pinching the shorter boy’s cheeks with his fingers. “Aww...is Iwa-chan mad? It’s okay, I think you’re hot.”_

_“Shut the fuck up and eat,” Iwaizumi reiterates, plying Oikawa’s hands off of him._

_Oikawa smirks. “Make me.”_

_“Fine. Love you. There, happy?”_

_“You sound like a constipated virgin,” laughs tumble out of Oikawa’s mouth like a dice cube out of his hand when they play monopoly, familiar and predictable but still managing to be a surprise nonetheless._

_“I take it back,” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes in a show of mock-annoyance, “I despise your bratty ass.”_

_“Iwa-chan!”)_

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a gun laying innocently on the ground, and in a show of absolutely nothing but pure desperation, he crawls over like a man in a desert deprived of water for days and grabs it, his trembling hands giving away the insanity of his current state of mind. There is one bullet left, and he distinctly remembers there being three, but then again, everything that he thinks is a concrete memory ends up being an illusion.

“It’s not real,” Oikawa chants under his breath, “it’s not real, it’s not real, nothing’s real,” his hands shake so violently that he ends up dropping the weapon, and it clatters on the ground like glass but doesn’t _break_ like glass, and at this point he can’t find himself to decipher to lack of logic in that statement. With nothing to hold and nothing to do, his fingers start to claw at his own skin, creating wobbly and thin lines of red.

“It’s not real,” he picks up the gun, “it’s not real,” a bloody finger hesitantly moves to the trigger, “it’s not—”

  
  
  
  


Inside the barn lays his father and his lover, bloody, broken, and oh so still.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> bonus scene when they get reincarnated:
> 
> oikawa: ive fucked u before  
> iwaizumi: ok  
> oikawa: wanna do it again  
> iwaizumi: ok


End file.
